


The Lives That Bind Us

by ididntdoit_blameitonthedragon



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canonical Character Death, Fighting, M/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 09:07:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13478223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ididntdoit_blameitonthedragon/pseuds/ididntdoit_blameitonthedragon
Summary: Sanji is your average Cook. He's got good standing on the economic scale, he attends University and his future is set in the Baratie.But what happens when a Green-Haired Neanderthal stumbles into his life, threatening to uncover the secrets Sanji has tried so hard to hide.





	The Lives That Bind Us

They’re circling around him, wary. He’s dealt each a punch, a kick, a jab. It hurt.  
They don’t want another, but that voice in the back of their heads told them not to back down. They thought they had a chance of winning this, of course they did. They wouldn’t have provoked him if they hadn’t.  
But now, all of them, even if just a little bit, were starting to regret it. Their fear of him, however, was too little to hold them back.

It was a standoff, but the man wasn’t going to take the bait. He’d let them. Wait till they got close and then strike.  
Of course, they had seen him at the gym, pulling weights and doing handstands, but none put little thought on the man’s strength. 

An invitational flicker of emotion, and they misread the impatience for fear. One didn’t want to wait. He pushed him back, to focused on the move to see the second behind, his fist aimed right at Zoro’s unguarded head.  
The blow took his face, took his breath, in one fluent movement. Zoro took the momentum, felt it surging through his body, crushing his fingers into a fist to bring it down across his opponent's face.  
Arlong stumbled, holding his mouth, pulling back to show the chipped enamel swimming in fresh blood. He had bit himself.  
_Idiot. Should know to clench your jaw when someone is about to hit you in the face._  
And he was still in range. 

Zoro threw another punch to the unsuspecting brute still preoccupied from where he was spitting out chunks of teeth. He dropped, but was on his feet before Zoro’s boot could connect with his jaw. 

Arlong’s eyes screamed murder, giving silent orders to his lackeys surrounding the hooded figure who watched them. His eyes followed them, but the electric impulses couldn’t get past the guard Zoro had put up around his mind. He was seeing, breathing, winning. 

But not feeling.  
Not thinking. 

They could see it in the way he moved, his fists dragging through the air like it was syrup, his fingers twitching at the noise of traffic and the night life at the end of the alley. 

They thought they would win this fight. Four on one; they’d gang up on him, take him down, and spend the rest of the night hunting more prey to pickpocket or lure into another fistfight. 

They moved again, synchronised. Two to the left, one in front, one to slide around to the blind spot and jump him last. Before he had time to lash out, a heavy boot swung up. Perfectly balanced, Zoro forced his leg out, catching him in the stomach, and then in quick succession, kicked him again. He was shoved back against the alley wall. He crashed into abandoned beer bottles; legs tangled in bin bags. He stayed down long enough for another the two on the left to make their move. 

The second opponent blocked view of the third, but with a fist to his abdomen, he knocked into the third. He hadn’t seen the attack and they fell together; tripped and tumbled, landing in a pile of hissing, spitting limbs, cursing profanities as they tried to get back up, using the alley wall as support.

The still silence returned to the alley, but not the serene. Zoro’s seemingly effortless attempts at fighting his opponents enraged them. 

Arlong made motions to the last man, who remained hesitant at approaching, even though he was armed with a beer bottle, smashed on the alley wall to reveal sharp glinting spikes.  
They moved in together from opposite sides.

A flicker of emotion danced across the hooded figure's lips as he smiled.

_Both men hesitated._

Without a warning, the hooded figure grabbed both men by their necks, his fingers flexing to boast of the strength in his digits. He had shown no sign. They hadn’t had time to dodge or defend themselves, now helpless as he pressed his fingers in, effectively choking them. A little pressure applied just right and he could snap their windpipes…

But, he didn’t want to kill them. And he could.  
So easily, snap their windpipes, slice their throats with the makeshift weapon and leave them to drown in their own blood.  
The man settled for shifting his weight, twisting his body to fling the others into opposite alley walls, smiling at the sound of crunching bone on impact. He couldn't keep the smile from his lips, the wild look in his eyes as he felt his bloodlust growing.  
He hadn't felt like this in a long time. These raw emotions reserved for only one man. One man that he would give anything to kill...

But numbing it, behind the wall he had built were those two dreaded words that fuelled his feet and his fists.  
A cold repeating, over and over in his head.

_“She's dead.”_

It knocked him off his feet and onto his back. Staring up to the sky that let rain fall and wash away his tears as those words filled him. He had been empty. He had built his wall and opened the flood gates to drown everything else out with fighting, bleeding, hurting.  
This fight was his anaesthesia, his dose of lidocaine that he rubbed into his mind to stop it wandering down paths he didn’t want to get lost along. He took the pain from punches, the vague irritation these schoolyard bullies brought with taunts falling on deaf ears. 

Zoro wasn’t listening. He was feeling.  
He felt his fist connect with flesh, his body still fighting. He kept his punches light, for the most part, his aim just off centre of the weak parts of the body. To prolong the fight. To keep this feeling of being alive.

He wanted this fight. He _needed_ this fight.  
This pain in his hand and chest and legs. The heaviness of his breath as he drew back his fist to slam it into someone's gut. The shattering sensation of his wrist as his punch collided with the alley wall; his target having ducked at the last second. The roar of emotion, the sweat on his skin, the sense of eyes on him.  
_The bloodlust growing. The adrenaline pumping through his body._

Zoro wasn’t listening. He was feeling.  
And falling apart. 

That voice kept him grounded though. He didn’t know whose it was. _Luffy?_ When he called earlier, asking where the man was? Asking where he had gone, why hadn’t he come home…  
Of course he wasn’t going home. Of course he couldn’t go back to them all. 

But still, there was that voice. Talking to him, clawing at him like a beast trapped deep down in the body of a man who shouldn’t be alive.  
That’s right.  
He shouldn’t. 

She should. 

She, who was dead. 

_“You killed her.”_  
The cold voice. Unforgiving. Relentless.  
Zoro's voice? Had he said it? Did he admit it to himself? Admit to killing her, letting her die, _watching her body grow cold–_ No, he hadn't seen her die. _He wasn't even there!_

 _“You weren’t there. You couldn’t save her. YOU killed her.”_  
Whose words? It didn’t matter.  
He could just feel the sadness, the emotion making his chest tight, his lungs cold with every breath. The guilt in his mind as he listened to the accusing words.  
_"She's dead. She’s gone."_

Kuina. Zoro's baby sister.

How? He did not know.  
There were words of 'accident' and 'fight.' 'Pushed' or 'fallen.' 'Tripped.'

_Dead._

She was dead, her body broken, skin numb to touch, her lips paling as the life left her. She lay on the side of the road, staring up at the rain that washed away blood.  
It was raining then. _It was raining now._  
She had been with him, and he had left her. _“It’s okay. I can get there on my own.”_  
And she had set off at a run, hair pulled back out her face, one single braid decorating the back of her ponytail where she had attempted girly-ness for the date.  
He had waved. She waved back, pulling out her umbrella to keep the rain off the new clothes. He had bought them for her, teasing her. She hated it, but loved the attention as they had bustled their way around the shops, trying to outdo one another with pranks. 

He had been driving, following the roads, grumbling at traffic and rain and people. And… _the phone rang._ Bluetooth made it loud. He had laughed a greeting, swatting away any remarks Luffy would’ve made about him being late.  
But Luffy wasn’t laughing. 

_“Where are you?”_  
Driving. He was still in car, stuck in traffic. But before Zoro could complain, was allowed to complain-

_“She’s dead.”_

Zoro didn't want to hear it. He began to run. Dumped the car somewhere forgotten and run, faraway from where he was and what he knew. Away from the pain, the guilt, the disgrace, the regret.

Where he had been, he didn't remember. Where he was going, he didn't know. 

His feet took him where they willed, down familiar streets and strange places. Past memories and moments of recollection.

The sky had darkened, the clouds rolling in and Zoro had found himself here, a fight in an alley. It was dark. He had recognised one of the faces; Arlong, a juvenile punk he'd seen sauntering around his university. The lackey's were familiar but he didn't know their names. He didn't care enough to remember anyway. All he knew was that he was fighting familiar faces with intent to kill.  
He wanted to hurt them. To make them feel as much pain as him.

Zoro's body moved in a blur. He felt a blow to his lower abdomen but moved with it, trying to keep a grip on reality as a burning sensation surged through his body.  
His head was too full of empty thoughts to notice, shoving it behind the wall and kept it there. He thought of himself standing before it; a guard to the deepest parts of his inner human he didn’t want to show.  
But that wasn’t the case. He knew it, even trying to hide from it himself. He was the lone soldier behind, not the castles defences, but a single shield, throwing gunfire in a desperate attempt to save himself. 

_“Ha! You couldn’t even save your baby sister. What makes you think you’ll be able to win this fight!”_

That’s right. She was dead.  
He wasn’t. She was gone and he was still here, breathing, fighting. _Living._  
Him, who should've been in her place. He, who would've survived the accident, not her who will never open her eyes again, never laugh about Zoro's excuse about the streets moving by themselves and never live a life beyond training and school and the new crush on that boy who she was going to see. 

Kuina had only just told Zoro of her first love. Not admiration, like what she felt for her brother and father.  
_Love._ The real deal with the universe stopping and flashing lights and the funny thumping in your chest when they smile at you or even glance your way. When time slows when your eyes meet for a split second and you feel bare, exposed, as if your very soul is on display…

The future of a family, children and a husband snatched away by Death, cruelly laughing as he held her life in his bony hands and crushed it to dust.  
To nothing. To _what ifs_ and _buts_ and _speculations._  
To _supposing_ and _imagination_ and feelings of regret and guilt.

Zoro slammed three pointed fingers into someone's neck, feeling the weight float away as they crumpled to the floor. He stood still, waiting for the next attack. _But it never came._

They had run. _Cowards._

_“Who are you calling a coward. You were the one who ran away first. You’re the one who is still running away now.”_

The pain charged at him with vengeance. His shield shattered and those dark thoughts took hold of him again. He had wanted the physical pain to blur it, let it seep out of his body in blood. But this pain wasn’t in his blood. It was in his head, in his heart, in his _soul._  
He would never be rid of it. 

Zoro’s only companion was the rain. The gentle feeling of kisses on his skin, washing down his face in rivulets that took his tears and hid them from the world. He didn’t want anyone to see his despair. _Why? Because he loved his sister? Because he adored her, mourned her? Was he not allowed to feel?_

No. Because he had been the one to kill her. 

He closes his eyes, putting back the one brick he could find, hoping for some shelter from the emotions that threatened to drown him. He wanted to forget. He wanted to forget everything.  
It was better than this pain. Surely. 

_What if he had never been her family? What if knowing her had killed her?_

There was a hum somewhere to Zoro's right; the sound of someone talking. He tried to place it, but the voice didn't sound familiar.  
No one should be talking. They had run away from him, so who?

Zoro opened his eyes, peering through the raindrops in front of him. There was a faint smell of tobacco smoke in the air, sharp against his overworked senses. His eyes caught a flash of bright gold that didn't belong in a grungy back alley.  
A stranger was stood in front of him, one hand gripping him just above his right wrist, as if to keep him upright. As if Zoro would keel over any second. He was an anchor, keeping him here in this moment. _Just let me fall._

Zoro stared at the long slender fingers, delicately marked with nicks and scars and burns, as if each one had been deliberately placed upon each digit. Tattoos of scars that each told a story that made this man.  
Yes, a man held his hand. He only had one eye visible, focused on Zoro’s face with questions. _Pity?_ He didn’t have a chance to confirm, the attention flickering past.  
He was the source of the smell; his cigarette glowing between two lips that moved as he spoke. Words dulled before Zoro could recognise them, make sense of them. 

Zoro followed the man’s gaze, the retreating figures of Zoro’s last opponents.  
He had used up too much energy with the fight. _The fight. He wanted it back. His anaesthesia._

Zoro made to follow the fleeing gang, but the hand on his wrist held him fast. Zoro looked to at it, didn’t like it.  
Pulled. Pulled again. 

The blond refused to let go, the mumbling of his voice getting louder. He was talking, his mouth moving around the cigarette without it moving place. His lips rolled with the words that never met Zoro’s ears; small and pink, although there’s an imperfection in the right corner. _A bruise?_  
His skin is off colour. Pale, but blotches of badly concealed pockets of red and pink underneath. He’s got more on his neck, some poking from under the curtain of hair that surely hid more, but Zoro’s not looking there. He’s looking at the contours of the face that should be so familiar, yet he can’t remember where he’s seen him before. His swirling eyebrow told Zoro he had never met this man before. _How could he forget curly eyebrows?_

The man was staring at him; blue eyes stormy with anger.  
Zoro stared back. He didn't think it weird to stare for so long, his eyes skimming across the man's lithe figure, limber body. Zoro could see his shape through the posh suit he was wearing; his small muscles flexing slightly as the Blond readjusted his grip just above Zoro's wrist. The man looked down to it, then back to the man.  
"What do you want _Curly-brow?"_ Manner’s wasn’t Zoro’s strong suit. He never said it was, never tried either, and especially to a man who had taken down his pitiful opponents before the real fight had even started.

"Bastard," the man hissed in reply, his grip tightening on Zoro's arm. There was a discomfort there but Zoro didn't really register it. Instead, his head started to focus on the other parts of his body that was hurting. His chest, his abdomen, his left shoulder, his right ankle, both his knees, his forehead. _Great, he was getting a headache._  
The pain was there, but not enough to conceal the storm brewing in his mind. He needed another opponent. He needed another fight. 

The rain bore down, making the once pleasant feeling turn cold. His hoodie grew heavy from the accumulating rain, his jeans tightening around his thighs. Thunder laughed in the sky, but no light came before, or after. Zoro stared up, wondering if he had missed it. No, it wasn’t there.

His thoughts otherwise occupied; Zoro remained oblivious to the actions of his companion. Something pulled at his conscious. He was talking. "…pulled a knife on you dumbass. And it was boring to watch some Neanderthal being bashed about." There was a subtle smirk at his own joke but other than that, the bastard sounded serious.  
Zoro growled at the insult, but he felt a sort of smugness when he heard Arlong had pulled a knife, noticing the small implement half imbedded in the alley wall opposite, not at all wondering how it got there.  
It didn’t matter. It was a puny weapon. Maybe Zoro should've brought his swords. _Then there would've been a murder._  
Either that or he could ram his blades through this particularly irritating blond who still had hold of his arm. 

"Let go asshole," Zoro growled, yanking on his wrist, but the blond held firm. In fact his finger's just curled tighter. Zoro could feel the power in his hands.  
_Why? He was a mere…_ well he was small. Zoro didn't really care what he was. But the Blond was staring at Zoro's chest like a monster was about to crawl out of it or something.  
"Come on," he said slowly, trying to pull the man closer by his arm, reasserting his strength. "I'll give you a ride to the hospital."  
"What?"  
Zoro wrenched his hand from the blond, taking a few steps back. His guard was up again, the threat unmoved from his place in the alley. 

"I'm not going to some damn hospital for some stupid scrapes and bruises." That was a fact. He'd never go to a hospital. They were useless wastes of space where they pumped money in and dead bodies out. _They_ couldn't save Kuina.  
"Idiot, you've broken your wrist," Blondie said, stabbing his cigarette towards the hand he had been holding; now scrunched in a fist as Zoro remained defensive. He glanced down, his brain linking the dull throb to the limb and felt pain. Not much, but enough he grimaced opening the hand again... _no, it was just fingers that he had dislocated._  
"It's nothing."  
A splint and a tight bandage. It would be healed within the weak. 

Zoro wasn’t going to stay here any longer. He knew where to pick a fight: Foxy's club; the back alley club with an underground fight ring. The pay was shit and the booze was cheap but that didn’t matter. There, were plenty of competitors that could hold themselves against Zoro's pent up emotions. For his warm up at least.  
With that in mind, Zoro turned to leave, pain in his chest. He ignored it, shaking off the horrible feeling of the soppy hoodie. _Damn thing._  
He pulled the hoodie off, revealing his bright green hair. The sight of it triggered a laugh from the pestering blond, but then– "Whoa dude you definitely need to see a doctor!" Blondie was back at his side, grabbing at Zoro's loose t-shirt. The closeness was unexpected. Zoro didn’t have enough time to react before the man was pulling up his top, revealing his bare chest. _“Fuck dude, you got shanked!”_

There, trailing along his skin like a tattoo; a large gash running from his belly button down to the top of his left thigh bone. Blood was smeared across his skin with large tracks running down to stain Zoro's jeans. Well that explained the pain. But still, it wasn’t anything to worry about.  
The green haired idiot grunted at the superficial wound. "It's nothing." And he pulled the t-shirt back down to cover it before the man got any ideas about searching the rest of his body for bruises and what not.  
Something must’ve caught Blondie’s attention. He gaped, but that quickly changed to anger. "Damn it moss-head. Just listen or you'll- hey. HEY!"  
Zoro watched the world tilt and felt himself come into contact with something hard and painful.

Everything went black.

**\----------------------------------------------------------------------------**

Sanji inhales slowly, feeling the smoke wrap his lungs warm, before breathing out. The steady steam floats up, dancing in the air with the rain the fell softly. He’s enjoying this, his body surrendering to the nicotine he’s been craving since his shift started.  
It had been a _long_ day. 

Repetitive orders, arguing with some new hires who thought they knew best. Complimenting the appearances of pretty woman and almost constant fighting with Patty and Carne, who couldn't even tell the difference between Cardamom and Ginger.  
Then Zeff just happened to kick off about something or other, and Sanji was the one to answer back. Most of the evening consisted of slamming doors and shouting at the top of his voice to waiters, cooks and inanimate objects, inadvertently giving himself a headache.  
The cigarette was helping, but not as much as he wanted it to. He’d thought of the occasional splint, but that was a slippery slope it was best to avoid. 

Maybe a hobby, he thought to himself, throwing the spent cigarette to the gutter, watching it hiss in the puddle-ing rainwater. It splashed and gurgled down the drain, stealing Sanji’s attention as the remaining staff escaped to their cars, quick to head home before traffic got unbearable. 

He should go too.  
He made to, but something stopped him. Sanji turned towards the noise, aware of the voices and scuffling. A _fight?_

Curiosity got the better of the man. He knew better to avoid matters that weren’t handed to him on a silver platter, but perhaps it was the stress of a long day had taken the common sense of his head space and fuelled the reserves with curiosity. And Sanji knows what everyone says about curiosity.  
Needless to say, the chef isn’t thinking about what he is doing, or more so, where his feet take him as he made his way between the restaurant and the abandoned building beside it, staring into the darkness. 

In the shadows, he was able to make out people. In the dim glow of a security light he could make out four, no, five.  
Five people fighting: _four on one._

The singular guy in question was holding his own ground, yet his defence was sloppy and his attacks were weaker than what his body mass indicated. Sanji could easily see he wasn't fighting seriously. Or maybe he had been hurt badly and was trying not to aggravate any wounds.  
From his movements, Sanji could see the man was experienced. He kept his balance on his toes, his movements fluid as a punch recoiled into an elbow jab, a missed kick followed through to pivot his body away from another who tried a rugby tackle, instead earning a boot to his arse, and a face full of gravel as he fell to the floor. 

Sanji found himself betting on the sole fighter, even if the gentleman in him was angry at the odds, and before he even knew what he was doing – _again, he really wasn’t thinking today,_ he was in the thick of it.  
He was there, close enough as the sheen of a knife could be seen in one attackers hand. “Knife!” Sanji yelled, because that was all he could think. The heard him, turning his body to let the weapon glide past, but Sanji couldn’t watch as his yell had attracted attention of his own, and now two turned to the _“pretty boy who didn’t know what he was getting himself into.”_

Oh, if only Sanji had known. 

“The fuck are you?” one gruesome ugly spat, only made uglier when Sanji planted a heel in the back of his knee, the bottle smashing as the Cook kicked it from his hand. He stuck a leg out for another, cursing when his muscles yelled at him for not warming up first.  
_How was I supposed to know I’d be fighting people?_ he yelled back, striking his third opponent with a blow to the solar plexus. Just for luck, he aimed for his shin. 

There was the satisfying crunch of bones breaking and howling in pain as the bullies went down. The first two grabbed the third by his arms and dragged him away in an attempt to save the shred of pride they had left.  
Or just to prevent anymore, _more serious,_ injuries.

Sanji chuckled to himself, slightly regretting kicking so hard. He could've done with a good fight to work out the stress of the day. Even if his body wasn’t ready for it. 

"That was fun," he laughed, turning to the other man. He had his head back, his eyes closed, just letting the rain wash over his face.

Sanji hesitated. The man looked defeated. It was like seeing a majestic lion, King of the wilderness, trapped in a cage at a zoo, the scars of circus training obvious across his body…  
But at the same time, he almost seemed at peace. 

"Hey, you okay?" Sanji lit himself another cigarette, waiting for a reply. None came.

"Hey. Did they bash about your one remaining brain cell? I asked if you were alright."  
Okay, so Sanji wasn't being all that polite, but it had been a long day and he was tired. Sanji didn't have to help the man. But something told the cook that the hooded figure didn't even realise that he was even there. "Hey. I'm talking to you."

Slowly, the man lowered his head and fixed Sanji with a blank expression, his blissful smile long gone, and his eyes unfocused slightly. The man tilted slightly, causing Sanji to reach out and grab the man's wrist to keep him from toppling back and smashing his skull on the alley floor. Not that Sanji cared or anything. But he'd just gone through the effort of helping the man beat off some thugs, otherwise it would just be wasted energy.  
His eyes searched for something, glancing over Sanji’s face with a hope of- Sanji saw the eyes on his neck, the ghosting over his face for the tell tale signs only the keen would see.  
_He’s observant ,_ said Curiosity. _He’s dangerous,_ said Caution. 

"Well?" said Sanji, forcing his instincts to lay low and remain watchful for eyes in the alley. There was something familiar about this man, and dread clawed its way up Sanji’s throat as the familiar face burned into his mind from memories of that top floor penthouse.  
_It’s not him,_ whispered Delusion. 

The man's face was partially covered by his hood making it hard to see all of his face, but that didn't really matter. Sanji just wanted to make sure that he could walk away by himself before he returned to the Baratie. It would be bad for business if the newspapers' reported that a dead body had been found behind his restaurant.  
Besides, this wasn’t… it couldn’t be…  
Sanji wasn’t _that_ unlucky…. 

"What do you want Curly-brow?"

"Bastard," Sanji voiced, hating the insult brought from a plenty of school ground fights. His word is no louder than an angry hiss but the man hears him and he’s wearing a smug grin that makes Sanji want to slam his face into the wall and walk off looking for another cigarette.  
But no, he can’t.  
He has to be sure this isn’t who he thinks it is, and when he’s confirmed it isn’t, then, and only then, can he kick him out the alley and push the memory from his mind. 

"They pulled a knife on you. Dumbass." Sanji clicked his tongue, letting the cigarette roll between his teeth as he talked. "And it was boring to watch some Neanderthal being bashed about," he said, smirking at his own insult. The man snorted in half attempted annoyance, staring down at his own appearance as if he was attempting to ignore Sanji. Or focus on something else… (Which was still ignoring the cook).  
Sanji narrowed his eyes. How rude could this guy get?

He was getting pissed off – angry that his suit was getting wet and this man's attitude was not helping. Anymore and he'd have to kick some manners into the asshole himself before billing the man the drycleaners fee.

"Let go asshole," the man growled, as if just realising that Sanji was holding it. He pulled on it, trying to loosen Sanji's grasp. The blond had half a mind to release him but he wasn't one hundred percent sure if the man could stand on his own. _Not that he should care or anything,_ he told himself. 

Then there’s the voice in his head. _Is it him? Can you see?_

 _It… it’s him._  
Fear mixes with dread as it coats his tongue, making everything numb. 

Sanji keeps hold of the man’s wrist, running the mental list through his head again. _Not here, definitely not here, that would be bad. There were witnesses. If he’s realised sooner he could’ve weighted the fight, but he had left his smarts by the Baratie’s back door and now…_

Then comes the other voice. 

_Not here. Not now. Not ever._  
They don’t know, they can’t know. This is coincidence.  
This can be our way out. 

_He can be our way out._

Sanji’s not sure, but he knows, _oh god he knows,_ he can’t let the man walk away now. If _they_ found out he had come this close, if they _knew_ that the man was here…. 

“Come on, I'll give you a ride to the hospital," Sanji lies, scrambling for a plan.  
His place is safest, he can’t go home, that’s no longer an option.  
_Does he tell him?_

_No, no he can’t tell him, he has to fool him and gain his trust first—_

"What!"

The man all but screeched the last word, jumping back as if Sanji had stabbed his with a cattle prod. He wrenched his hand from Sanji's grasp and Sanji hoped to god that he had imagined the gob of spit.  
_Yuck._

"I'm not going to some damn hospital for some stupid scrapes and bruises," he continued to growl angrily, like some cat with bristled fur. The man had taken several steps back, so maybe he wasn't as hurt as Sanji had originally thought. Okay, so hospital wasn’t going to work. But Sanji needed this man to come with him, he couldn’t let him walk. 

Or could he? They didn’t know so if Sanji lets him go…. No, no, he has to take him. This man is the key to everything, and Sanji is so close to having him in his hands.  
But what angle? What angle can he… _oh. That angle._

"Idiot, you've broken your wrist," the cook said, beginning the stages of a cool, calm and collected good citizen. He stabs his cigarette towards the man's right hand, which he had been holding moments before, knowing all too well what broken bones feel like. 

“It's nothing," the man began to argue, pulling up the injury to inspect it. He shrugged to himself as if broken bones were a common occurrence. Sanji took another drag from his cigarette, brain running too fast for thoughts to be sorted into one at a time. 

In one fluid motion – completely ignoring the break in his left wrist – the man reached down and pulled off his black baggy hoodie, which had quickly become soaked from the rain. Sanji stared as the man revealed bright green hair, and, if he had had any doubts, he doesn’t have them now.  
His top underneath somewhat stuck to his body from where it was damp from rain and sweat, clinging nicely to his chest, revealing toned abs and several tense muscles leading to slowly deepening creases between muscle that disappeared below the man's pant line.

Okay, he knows his angle, but he can’t pretend to reveal his cards until they’re away from this alley. 

But before Sanji can decide his next step, he noticed the sickly dark smudge of blood on the man's top. The white fabric shifted from the man's movements, giving Sanji a quick glimpse of the wound underneath. _Score!_  
"Whoa dude you definitely need to see a doctor!"  
Sanji jumped forward, lifting the top once more, he fingers ghosting over the three inch slash mark from the knife, concern pulling into his features.  
He was sure it had missed… _that the man had dodged it._  
How could he not realise he had been wounded this badly?

It didn't look too deep, but the amount of blood was already enough to raise concerns and Sanji feared he _would_ have to take the man to a hospital. But no, there’s none round here not in _their_ grasp.  
The cook was too busy thinking how much gauze the Baratie first aid box had to notice the green haired man's face light up pink from the sudden closeness, as if Sanji had already began making his move to foster trust between them. Sanji's cigarette dropped to the floor, almost burnt out anyway as he stepped in slightly closer, keeping his thoughts medical, trained on survival for the pair of them.

"It's nothing," the man repeated in an obvious awkward grunt, attempting to pull his t-shirt back down to cover his bare patch of skin.  
Sanji glanced upwards half an inch to the man's eyes. “Damn it moss-head," he bit angrily, watching the eyes flicker for a moment. "Just listen or you'll- hey."

The man wobbled slightly, pulling concern into Sanji's voice. "HEY!"  
The man full on fainted, his body heading towards the concrete floor. Sanji just managed to hook his arms under the man and force the weight onto himself, but unable to completely save the man’s head before it knocked the pavement. 

Okay, actually, this could help him. Now there would be no resistance, and Sanji could get the man, at least into his car, unhindered.  
But first, Sanji hauled the man into the Baratie’s back room. 

He had the man take pain killers while he patched him up, ignoring the incoherent excuses but they were just excuses just the same. "Look moss-for-brains. You either take the medicine and let me clean that wound, or I'll kick your sorry ass to the hospital." That shut him up.  
Seems the aversion to hospital was a good enough threat that the man agreed to let Sanji help him. He was even willing to get into the car. 

The green-haired man opened one lazy eye and fixed it with Sanji's “Jus’ drop me off home. I don't need any charity," he said, pulling himself to sit upright in the chair from where he’d slumped his body upon climbing in. "Thanks and whatever but I'll just go home."  
"And let you keel over from blood loss or blood poisoning from a dirty knife? I don't think so." Pour excuses, but it was all Sanji had on the spot. At least the man didn’t fight him further. 

It took Sanji three minutes to push the man in the car, clean all the blood from the backroom and then seven more minutes to drive home. It would usually take him about twenty minutes to drive, but the idiot in the passenger seat was taking a turn for the worse and Sanji had better medical supplies at home. 

The man’s brow was glittering with sweat, his mouth hanging open slightly as he gasped for air. He was overheating and Sanji could see he was a lot paler than usual. Had he missed anything? Another stab wound? A concussion of some sort.  
Maybe it would be better to, if not take him to a hospital, at least find someone…

"Oi Mosshead. Don't you dare get blood on my seats," Sanji growled although his tone was more of concern than anger. Relief too that this plan, wacked and poorly thought through was seemingly going smoothly. 

Now, the only danger was of the Mosshead dying. If he could bait the man into an argument at least, it could keep him focused off the wound a little and keep him conscious. He didn't really want to carry the man into his apartment. It might look weird from some of his neighbours. "Just drive shitty blond. And shut your trap. You're giving me a headache."

Sanji lived on the top floor of a luxurious block of flats.  
By the time they arrived, the man was close to passing out again, meaning Sanji had to help him into the lift and then along the corridor to his flat. Keeping him upright with one hand and fishing for his key with the other, Sanji managed to open his flat and the two bundled inside, tripping over each other and landing in a flump just inside the door.

The flat was generously spacious for the price that the Cook had paid for it.  
The front door led to a small room with a cupboard for coats and a rack for shoes. Beyond was a corridor with doors leading to the first bedroom, downstairs bathroom and the open plan living room, dining room and kitchen. Naturally, being a Cook, Sanji's kitchen was state of the art, with his fabulous double fridge/freezer, electric cooker and every gadget master chefs would only dream of having in their kitchen. In the living room was also a pair of stairs that led to the second floor. It was designed in such a way that a large walkway lined the top, meaning that whoever was upstairs (and not in one of the rooms) could see down to the first floor.  
On the second floor was a second bedroom, the master bedroom plus on-suite, a second bathroom and Sanji's study.

After lots of grumbling from both sides, Sanji dumped the man on the sofa; who immediately rolled onto the floor, somehow missing the coffee table. It was as if the idiot was drunk.  
Sanji didn't bother to lift him back onto the couch as he slipped out of his jacket, heading to the bathroom where his too-large-for-normal first aid kit was waiting. He returned to the man, who had sat himself up against the side of the sofa, trying to keep his eyes open as he glanced around. If he was impressed, he stayed silent.

Sanji worked in silence, cutting away the white t-shirt with the first-aid scissors (it was ruined anyway), washing the wound with antiseptic before closing it with some weird glue like gel that he had bought because he was fed up of using steri-strips from his own wounds.  
Once he had done that, Sanji padded the wound with gauze and wrapped the man's lower abdomen in a semi-tight bandage.

“You’ve done this before,” the man tells him, noting the professionalism. “I work in a kitchen with knives,” is all Sanji supplies.  
The man doesn’t say anymore. 

After the main stab wound was fixed (as much as Sanji could do) he moved to the man's wrist. Upon closer inspection the bone was only dislocated, but that meant he needed to set it.  
Without saying a word, Sanji took the appendage and crushed it slightly. The green-haired man cried out until there was a definite pop sound and the cry turned to a deadly hiss. He fixed Sanji with a murderous glare but the Cook ignored him, grabbing his wrist and bound it, not too tightly, but tight enough. 

“You enjoyed that.”  
“And so what if I did?” Sanji smiles, but it’s that openly flirty way he does with the female targets that have the info he wants. His expression softens Zoro’s, but whatever he was going to stay remained locked behind his lips. 

Sanji washed the remaining scrapes in silence, applying a soothing ointment before asking if there was anywhere else the man was hurt. The answer was no. The painkillers had done the trick and by the time Sanji had finished, the man looked almost content.

He showed the moss-head towards the bedroom on the first floor, helping him as he stumbled to the bed, crashing down onto it without even bothering to pull back the covers or strip himself of rain-soaked clothes. Sanji huffed to himself and left the man in the room, preparing to clear up the mess grass-head had made with his blood.  
By then Sanji had no energy to do anything. He had been planning to watch TV and relax but the incident had drained him, both physically and mentally. The blond made his way to bed and fell asleep the second his head met the pillow.

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of unfinished, in the sense that there is easily more story to be told, but for now, we'll hang onto the mysteries.


End file.
